A Day's Wait
by Citrine
Summary: Two old friends and a final farewell. Short and sad.


Sunset bells are ringing, clear and far away; the day is nearly done. Long, golden rays of light shine in through the tall windows, and motes hang in the still air like stardust. The king and queen have been summoned, but for now we're alone. Alone together, just for a little while, before others come to make you ready for this last journey. The bed Legolas placed you on is quite high, and my old knees creak and my ribs pain me as I climb up. King Elessar would have ordered hobbit-sized furniture made for you and I, but you said no, no, don't bother. I suppose you knew we weren't going to be using it for long, although I pretended otherwise. When I touch your face, it still feels warm from the heat of the day. I could almost pretend you are only sleeping. 

There's still dust on your face from your fall into the street. Legolas lifted you up and brought you here to your rooms, and the healers came, but you were already gone. I can't help feeling a little angry with you for being in such a hurry to leave us, but I suppose you didn't really have a choice, did you? No chance for goodbye, but also no chance for pain or fear-and you have been afraid these last few months, afraid I would go first and leave you all alone in this grand city. For this much, I am not sorry. Sometimes being afraid is more terrible than a certain end, and I hated that old, haunted, fearful look in your eyes when you glanced at me. That was always your problem, you know, you always worried so over others, but never enough about yourself. You were always so brave, dear old Merry.

The light is fading. There is a basin of warm water here, and some cloths, brought in by the maids. I suppose they meant to tidy you up a bit before I came in and Legolas shooed them away. This should be my task, as it would have been Estella and the children's task, if they were here. Well, as they are not, it is up to me. We hobbits should stick together, and we shall, even now. I dip the cloth in and wring it out, and it is so very quiet I can hear every single drop fall back into the basin. 

I wash your face. I want to remember every inch, every line, and every wrinkle. I trace the brown scar on your forehead, the old, old scars of the bindings on your wrists. They are not so bad as the marks of the lash on your back, but those were seldom seen. But then, the truly terrible scars were always unseen, hidden on the inside of us, weren't they, dear cousin? On our hearts and minds. I have them, too. 

I dip the cloth in and wring it out, lifting your hands to wash them clean. Short, clever, capable things they always were, not so slender and quick as Frodo's hands, or so brown and strong as Sam's, but sure and gentle when you held your wife, or tossed the little hobbits into the air, or lifted a smaller, stumbling cousin out of the mud. For more than a century of Men's time they have worked and toiled, touched and comforted, wielded a sword, written reams and reams of good words. Now they are at rest. I find myself singing softly over them as I work: Simple Shire-songs of rain and wind, harvest and reaping, the look in the eyes of a lass when she loves you, the end of a long journey and the goodness of coming home. 

Your white hair is ruffled and dusty, so I comb it through with my dampened fingers, still singing. I wish you could hear me. You always said I had a fair voice. I need to reach the back of your hair, so I pull you up and let you rest your head on my shoulder. How heavy and slack you feel! Now I shake and weep and the song falters, and the drops run off the end of my nose and wet your shirt. How you would laugh if you could see me now, holding you and sobbing away like an old Gammer. I wish you could see me. I wish I could hear your laugh. 

I kiss your knobby old knuckles, and I should fold your hands, but I can't. I can't let them go, not just yet. My work here is finished. I have done my part and sung you on your way. Now I must let you lay back in sleep, the deepest, most peaceful sleep you have ever known, the one you will never wake from. No more Merry to laugh at my stupid, well-worn jests, or to tease me about being a fat old hobbit who eats too many teacakes. You have closed your eyes on this world and opened them in that far green country we talked about long ago. You see it now, don't you Merry? Is Frodo there, and Sam? Tell them I'm coming! I know you won't go too far from me; you always did slow down enough to let me catch up, even when the other lads ran on ahead. Merry! Merry! I close my eyes tight and I can see you smiling in a bright light like the sun, and the shadow is gone from you forever, and oh you look so young. Only wait there a little while at the end of the road, and soon I will shrug off all my weariness and age like the shreds of a ragged cloak, and when you hold out your hand and tell me it is time to go, I'll rise up and run to you. Wait for me, dear Merry. 

Sunset bells are ringing, clear and far away.

The end

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Author's Note, 2/20:

After taking a look at Marigold Cotton's website this morning, just like I do every Friday, and discovering that she had mentioned not one, but two (!!) of my stories on her recommendations page, I decided I should say a little something and express my deep appreciation and thanks. 

A Far Green Country did come about because of something I read, somewhere, where it said that Merry and Pippin died within a day of each other. This story, A Day's Wait, was originally supposed to be a sort of epilogue for A Far Green Country, but I decided it made the story too unwieldy and didn't really fit the tone I was going for, so I cut it. But after taking a second look, I decided it had enough going for it to be a stand-alone story, if maybe a little short and experimental. I tinkered with it, polished it up, and after a sobfest over my keyboard at one in the morning, posted it. It was a completely spur-of-the-moment thing, and I never expected it to move anyone else like I was moved when I was writing it.

I am the harshest critic of my own work, and the idea that not only is someone else reading the stuff that I write, but that they might like it and encourage someone else to read it, well, that still just blows my mind. Marigold, once again, for the encouragement and the tremendous ego boost you have given me, I thank you. :o)


End file.
